Things Like This
by Mostly Harmless III
Summary: After they survive a deadly battle, Clark and Bruce stay behind to celebrate being alive. After all these years, they have a lot to get out of their systems. Bruce/Clark. Slash.


It should have been just any other victory, but this one felt different. They could have actually lost. They could have — all of them — died. They hadn't, and the joy of their survival was making Superman feel giddy. He stood and got his footing sorted atop the rubble. Once he was settled, he extended his hand down to Batman who was covered in dirt and grime. His armor was dented and torn, but he too seemed buoyed up by their survival. Batman pulled hard on the hand and struggled to his feet. Then he was steady before Superman.

They faced each other and something passed between them, wordlessly. Superman smiled and was surprised when Batman smiled back. Seconds later and they were both laughing.

He was alive. Batman was alive. The dusty air was sweet like candy, and the shared laughter made him feel like a king.

The debriefing was at the Batcave since it was near and safe. Diana ran the proceedings and kept the order. Ollie and Barry were feeling the same giddiness that Clark had felt earlier. They joked back and forth, interrupted Diana, who wasn't annoyed, but tolerant. She indulged them, was just as pleased as Clark was to be alive.

Alive.

Here.

With Bruce. And everything was different now. Every breath they took, all the sandwiches Alfred brought, every little thing reminded Clark how good it was to be alive.

One after the other they all started filtering out. Ollie hugged everyone but Batman (he gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder instead). Diana smiled warmly at everyone and kissed them on both cheeks.

Clark didn't leave. He lingered through the long goodbyes. Batman watched all the exits, a dark shadow with flat white eyes. Those eyes were trained on Clark, and Clark wasn't afraid. He understood.

And then they were alone. Just the two of them. Finally.

The size of the Cave, the eerie squeaks that came from every corner — somehow, it was all as comforting to Clark as it had once been intimidating.

He looked at Batman. "We made it," he said.

"We did," Batman agreed. Only…

No, it wasn't Batman. It was Bruce who spoke. And just to prove Clark right, one heavy black glove reached up, undid the fastenings on the cowl and let it fall back and away from his face. There were heavy lines around his mouth and eyes where the armor cut into his skin. He was red and sweaty and looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. Clark _knew_ he hadn't slept in weeks. Bruce was beautiful, and Clark didn't know if he'd always felt that way, or if knowing him so long — so well — had taken away his choices. It didn't matter now. Beauty was all he saw.

Bruce approached him slowly, the drape of his cape teasing the ground with each step. He moved carefully, as if he didn't want to frighten Clark away. And Clark was charmed by the idea, that Bruce didn't seem to know everything about this moment, about how it would unfold. He should have known: Clark wasn't going anywhere.

He let his hands stay easy at his sides as Bruce neared. He was a patient man. He'd waited this long; he didn't have to rush. Bruce stopped, about three feet away from him. His eyes dropped away, then slowly lifted back to Clark's face.

"I don't know how to do things like this anymore," Bruce admitted.

Clark shook his head and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I don't either," he admitted. "Let's try and make it easier: what do you want?"

Bruce shrugged. "I don't want you to leave."

Clark took a deep breath. Air seemed in short supply today, like his speeding heart was gobbling it all up. "I don't want to go."

Now it was Bruce's turn to look a little breathless. "Good," he said. He took another step forward, and now it was his turn to extend a hand to Clark, who took it and let himself be led through the manor.

* * *

The cape and suit came off quickly. He was Superman and he wasn't going to pretend he didn't want this right now. He was a whirl of movement, unembarrassed, unashamed. He presented himself to Bruce along with his eagerness. Bruce nodded at his body, the smooth perfection of it.

"It's one thing to imagine," he said simply when Clark gave him a look that said, "What?"

It was a compliment. A Batman sort of compliment, but Clark was flattered nonetheless. He wanted Bruce to like what he saw.

The Batsuit took more time for Bruce than the cape had for Clark. There were catches and panels and weapons he couldn't let fall to the ground. Clark clenched his fists to keep from rushing forward to help. Bruce wouldn't want that. So everything was carefully removed by Bruce's own hands, one piece at a time placed in a hidden compartment along the wall.

At last Bruce was naked, covered in ugly old scars, infected-looking new cuts, and angry blooming bruises. He waited, nude and flawed — his body a twisted mess — for Clark to pass judgement. Clark imagined running his tongue over every single trench of scar tissue.

"Anything broken?" Clark asked. He could check himself, but upsetting Bruce was not how he wanted to start this.

"No," Bruce said. "Don't...baby me," he added in a huff.

"I have no intention of babying you," Clark said, his voice gone low and dark.

Bruce watched him for a minute. "Good," he concluded. He moved to the bed, but didn't climb on yet. Instead his eyes roamed over Clark with bald appreciation.

"That drawer has lubrication," said Bruce. "Condoms," he added.

Clark felt such lust right then it was overpowering. This wasn't a fantasy. This was real and it was happening just how he wanted.

Clark opened the drawer, tossed the bottle and a condom on the bed, and then moved for Bruce. The kiss was slow and deep at first. Clark made a satisfied little "Mmmm" sound and Bruce stroked the back of his neck and pulled him closer. Clark kept smiling against Bruce's soft lips.

"Finally,' he said.

"Agreed," Batman replied. Then Bruce broke the kiss, licked his lips like he liked tasting Clark there, then said, "Get on the bed, Clark."

Clark liked the sound of his name from Bruce's wet, red lips.

He was Superman, so he was on the bed with a rush of air that made the sheets flutter and made Bruce mutter something cruel. But then he straddled Clark, touched him with big, gentle strokes all along his chest, his palms hot and rough on his skin.

"You were kissing me," Clark reminded him.

"I was," Bruce said, then let his tongue dip into Clark's mouth. The taste of him made Clark think of the battle, the dust flying, the roar of explosions, the crush of flesh and bone beneath his fist. The triumph of standing atop rubble, alive and invincible.

"Mmm," Bruce moaned when the kisses stopped being so slow and sweet suddenly. Bruce found himself on his back, Clark above him. The kiss got messy. The kiss, their hands, it was all happening very quickly. They rolled again, like they were sparring, fighting for dominance. It was glorious, reckless, wild.

"Okay," Clark panted as he broke away, spread his legs in invitation.

Bruce's eyes were alive. He reached for the lube. "No turning back, _Superman_," he whispered.

"Shut up, _Batman_," Clark laughed and pulled him down on top of him. He caught a glimpse of Bruce's mouth as he let himself be pulled, a mouth that was turned up in humor and relief and joy. Clark sighed as their bodies aligned head to toe.

Finally.


End file.
